


Lips Like Heroin

by CitrusVanille



Category: McFly
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Marking, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-16
Updated: 2008-08-16
Packaged: 2018-07-27 15:12:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7623640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CitrusVanille/pseuds/CitrusVanille
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Harry isn't expecting anyone, it being nearly three in the morning, but he isn't particularly surprised when he opens the door to find Danny on his front step.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lips Like Heroin

Harry isn’t expecting anyone, it being nearly three in the morning, but he isn’t particularly surprised when he opens the door to find Danny on his front step.

“I wake you?” Danny asks.

“Yes,” Harry replies, and attempts a glare, but it is completely lacking in venom. It’s hard to glare and mean it when the person in front of you is barefoot, looking distinctly disheveled, and wearing pink pyjamas with teddy bears on them. It’s rather adorable, actually, though Harry would never say as much, even half-awake. “Does it make a difference?” he wants to know, but, before Danny can answer, “Those were just for a laugh,” he gestures at Danny’s ensemble, “not actually meant to be worn.”

“They’re comfy,” Danny shrugs, sounding unruffled, but Harry’s almost positive he can detect a faint flush in what light there is from the hall behind him and the streetlamps behind Danny. “Like you’re one to fucking talk.”

Harry glances down at himself – he’s wearing the blue boxers with silver drums that Danny had bought him for the same gag-gift exchange that Harry had purchased the teddy bear pyjamas for. “I always sleep in boxers,” he says, purposefully ignoring Danny’s point. “And when someone woke me up by banging on my damn door, I didn’t much care if it was rude not to put a robe on.”

“Sorry ‘bout that.” Danny doesn’t sound sorry at all.

“Not like you’re complaining,” Harry points out, feeling a bit more awake with each passing minute. He can tell from the way Danny’s eyes flick over him that, geeky boxers or not, Danny’s enjoying the view.

“If you invite me in,” Danny counters.

Harry blinks at him – he’d forgotten they were still standing in his doorway – and steps back automatically to allow him in.

Danny smiles that smile that does funny things to Harry’s stomach, and shuts the door, casually throwing the bolt. “I couldn’t sleep,” he says, as if that explains everything, and, in a way, it does.

“So you figured I shouldn’t sleep either?”

Danny’s grin turns wicked. “Not like you’re complaining,” his voice is deeper – rougher – than Harry’s had been with the same words on his tongue.

Harry abruptly feels fully awake. “You planned this,” he challenges, blood heating.

Danny smirks. “Still don’t seem to be protesting.”

Harry moves closer, slowly invading Danny’s personal space. “Do you want me to?” his own voice has gone low, husky.

Danny stills. Harry sees him shudder slightly as though a tremor has run down his spine. The hall is dim – even more so now the door is shut, and the light on the stairs is still out, Harry only having bothered to turn on his bedroom light before stumbling to answer the door – but, at this distance, it’s enough for Harry to see Danny’s eyes darken as his tongue darts out to moisten his lips.

Harry leans in a few more inches, so close they’re sharing breath. “If you want me,” he breathes, lips brushing against Danny’s with even the barest movement, “all you have to do –” he nips lightly at Danny’s lower lip, then leans smoothly to the side when Danny leans in to meet him, gliding his teeth around the rim of Danny’s ear, taunting “–is catch me.” And he pulls away, breaking for the stairs.

He barely makes it to the bedroom before Danny catches him, grabbing him around the middle and whirling him to slam him against the wall just inside the door with enough force to knock the air from Harry’s lungs.

“Got you,” Danny’s voice is a rough whisper before he claims Harry’s mouth in a fierce kiss.

Harry moans into it, pressing as close as he can, even as Danny’s weight pins him to the wall, tongue sliding intohis mouth, slick and sweet and hot.

They separate with a faint smacking sound, light-headed from lust and lack of oxygen, and Danny attacks his neck, just above the collarbone, sharp bites and sucking kisses harsh on sensitive skin. Harry hisses in pain and tilts his head for better access, grateful to be wedged between Danny and the wall, because he doesn’t think his legs will hold his weight.

“God, fuck, Dan,” Harry groans as Danny’s teeth press into the base of his throat, his hands slipping under the waistband of Harry’s boxers to grab his arse and grind their hips together. His own hands scrabble at Danny’s back, under his stupid pink pyjama top – short nails catching on skin, making Danny shiver and jerk against him – before sliding around front to tug frantically at his buttons, snapping off more than one in his haste, not caring as they clatter to the floor and roll away.

Danny’s laugh is more exhale than sound, skittering across the damp patches of Harry’s neck like so many fingers, and Harry’s very skin twitches and jumps as if even it is trying to get closer. “In a rush?” he asks, tongue and voice dancing over Harry’s collarbones in a way that has Harry twisting against him, searching desperately for friction. Danny laughs again, but he’s as hard as Harry is – Harry can feel his cock against his thigh – and Harry’s not sure how long either of them will last like this.

“ _Danny_ ,” it’s practically a whine, but Harry can’t be arsed to care, because he can’t fucking _move_ with Danny holding him so tightly, and he just – “would you fucking – I need to – _fuck!_ ” he shudders in Danny’s grip when he feels a single finger tease over his entrance, and bites down hard on Danny’s shoulder, cotton squeaking under his teeth in protest, but Danny just does it again, making a noise low in his throat.

“Could fuck you right here,” – Danny’s ragged breath is moist against Harry’s ear, his tongue wet, and he’s still teasing, teasing, holding Harry still with one fucking large hand pressed so hard against the small of his back it’s probably bruising – “right here, hard and fast and dirty – make you fucking scream.” The dry tip of Danny’s finger breaches Harry’s body, and he winces, but –

“God yes,” he pants, wriggling desperately as much as he can. “Anything – just – please, just fucking – _do_ something –”

Danny’s finger withdraws – and that’s a real whine rising up in Harry’s throat, now, but – “Hurting you,” Danny rasps, and “Need – where?”

“Drawer,” Harry manages to say, doesn’t need to ask, and Danny backs away three stumbling steps before turning and heading unerringly for the top drawer of the table on the left-hand side of Harry’s bed, as if he knew all along – which he did, nothing’s moved since last time – just needed the confirmation. He shrugs his opened shirt from his shoulders as he moves, barely seeming to notice as it falls to the floor by the foot of the bed.

Harry stays where Danny left him, eyes half-closed as his blood thunders in his ears, letting the wall support his weight, trembling with the effort of keeping his hands by his sides. It seems like forever before Danny stops rummaging and turns back to him, lube and condom in one hand, something flat and rectangular in the other. _Come here,_ his eyes say, and Harry doesn’t remember moving, but they’re both on the bed and Harry can’t figure out why in hell they’re not touching.

Danny reaches out to him, and Harry thinks, _yes,_ but no, because Danny is holding something, and his eyes are hot, but there’s a slight crease of confusion in his forehead that Harry is quite sure should not be there at this particular moment in time. “Why was this there?” Danny asks, and Harry can’t decipher anything but puzzled curiosity in his voice.

Harry looks down and almost chokes – which was more or less the reaction he had intended when he put it in that particular drawer. It’s an old photograph of the band, from back when Danny still straightened his hair, and they’re all wrapped up around each other like they never want to let go.

“Harry?”

Harry takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself down enough to explain with some coherency. “I put it there to keep this –” he points at Danny’s other hand and then gestures between the two of them “– from happening again.”

Danny blinks at him, but Harry doesn’t let him speak.

“I put it there to remind myself of what we could lose – what we _will_ lose – if we get caught, if anyone finds out.”

“You think we’ll lose the band? Or is it our friendships you’re worried about?”

That’s far more intuition into the situation than Harry had expected. “Both,” he says, and looks away.

He hears Danny take a deep breath. “You want to stop?”

Harry doesn’t look up, doesn’t want to answer that question, because he knows what his answer ought to be, but he wants nothing less than to give it, and isn’t all that sure that he can.

“Haz?”

Harry flinches. “I _know_ we should stop,” he says finally, then looks Danny directly in the eyes. “I didn’t say I wanted to.”

“What _do_ you want?” Danny’s face is closed, and Harry’s not used to that. Doesn’t know how to do anything but answer truthfully.

“You.”

“Why?”

Harry blinks. He wasn’t expecting that question, especially not from Danny, who never seems to think about it, never seems to question, just does what he wants, when he wants, what he thinks feels good at the time. “Because it’s you,” Harry tells him, not really sure he himself can explain. He’s spent so long trying to ignore the hollow feeling in his stomach whenever he’s thought about just – stopping. The itch that seems to be in his skin, in his blood, when he hasn’t been able to touch Danny for any length of time. The intense feeling of relief, of coming home, when they’re finally together again. “How could I not want you? Especially now, after we’ve – I mean, it was bad before, when I just wanted you, before I really knew what I was missing – but now,” Harry shakes his head. “How could I not?” he asks again, and he’s not sure this time if he’s asking Danny or himself, because now there’s no turning back, not for him, and he’s not even sorry.

“So what now?” Danny asks. Harry can see the lines of tension in his neck, his shoulders, his arms, and feels a rush of guilt for being the cause. This whole situation is bizarre, but even more so because they _don’t_ talk about it, never have, and it would just figure that this – this thing between them – is the one thing that could get to someone as perpetually laid back and relaxed Danny.

Harry shakes himself mentally and shifts closer on the bed. “So now, you get rid of that,” he points at the picture in Danny’s hand, “And figure out what you’re supposed to be doing with those,” his finger turns towards Danny’s other hand.

For a moment, Danny looks thunderstruck, then he starts to grin, and Harry’s whole stomach turns over and his head feels light. The photograph flutters to the floor, but Harry can’t look away from Danny’s mesmerizing smile, feels himself falling forward – in that moment needing nothing so much as the taste of Danny’s curving lips.

Danny meets him halfway – and _fuck_ , how is it always so good? How could he have even considered giving this up? – and Harry wraps his hand around the nape of Danny’s neck, tangling his fingers in soft hair and tugging as he pulls back so Danny follows, and they tumble over together.

Hands sliding under Harry’s waistband again, tugging insistently, and Harry lifts his hips, wriggling to help get rid of his boxers. He groans in protest as Danny’s mouth leaves his, then again when Danny renews his assault on his neck, nipping at the bruises Harry can already feel forming from earlier, then laving the bites, soothing the raw flesh with his tongue, before moving down over Harry’s collarbones and across his chest.

“Oh, god, Danny – fuck,” Harry hisses, arching up as teeth scrape one of his nipples and sink in just above it.

Danny’s chuckle ripples across Harry’s skin and his fingers grip Harry’s hips, holding him down when Harry tries to push up. Harry whines in frustration and grits his teeth against pleas and curses alike, which only makes Danny laugh harder and bite down again, just at the base of Harry’s ribs, before swiping his tongue across to the other side and lower, circling his navel, dipping in just the tip, making Harry squirm in his grip and clutch at the sheets to keep from winding his fingers in Danny’s hair and just forcing his head down.

“Well,” Danny’s lips move against Harry’s hip, just to the inside of his own hand, his voice low, husky, and rather smug, “what have we got here?”

Harry twitches, then feels the pad of Danny’s thumb tracing a pattern on his hip, and remembers. There’s still a mark there that hasn’t quite faded. “Last time,” he says, though it’s clear Danny already knows, and – “Fuck, Danny –” he gasps when Danny sucks on the spot again, teeth and tongue renewing his claim.

Apparently satisfied with his work on Harry’s hip, Danny trails lower, following the planes of Harry’s body, lips skimming skin with just a hint of tongue. Harry tries to twist into it, but Danny’s more than a match for him in strength, and his goddamned giant hands are keeping Harry from doing much more than shiver within their grasp. Harry bites into his bottom lip when Danny lays his head on Harry’s thigh, letting his lashes sweep across the sensitive skin. After a moment, he shifts and begins pressing open-mouthed kisses up the inside of one thigh and down the other. Then Danny’s teeth sink in just at the pulse point, high on the inside of Harry’s thigh, and a desperate noise – half hiss, half groan – works its way up Harry’s throat, and he tastes blood.

“Fucking – fuck – Dan, please, just –” his hands are clenching convulsively in his sheets, and he doesn’t know if he loves it or hates it that Danny’s such a fucking, fucking tease, because he’s not sure he can handle much more of this – he’s so hard it fucking hurts – and Danny’s still half-dressed which isn’t fucking _fair_ , but Harry can’t even _move_ –

His head snaps back and he screams when Danny swallows his cock in a single motion – no warning. His back arches up off the bed, shoulders barely touching the mattress, hips still firmly pinned. His fingers have somehow knotted themselves into Danny’s hair, and it feels like that and Danny’s bruising grip are the only things keeping him from flying into a million pieces. He feels likes he’s being devoured an inch at a time, but he doesn’t care – wants it, needs it, craves it. He’s trembling, an incomprehensible litany of entreaties and curses tumbling unchecked from his lips as Danny’s teeth scrap oh-so-fucking-lightly over his skin, as his tongue presses against the vein, as the tip darts fleetingly into the slit – and he’s going to – no, he doesn’t want to come like this, he wants – he needs –

“Fucking _Christ_ ,” Harry groans, and yanks Danny up by the hair. “Fuck me now, blow me later.”

And this time Danny doesn’t laugh, just smashes their mouths together with a low growl, biting until Harry lets him in. Harry can taste himself on Danny’s tongue and he arches up again, thrilling at the freedom to move now that Danny’s brilliant hands are tracing his sides, callused fingers skating over sweat-slicked skin. Harry drags his fingers down Danny’s back, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks, hard enough to make Danny growl again and push his hips down. Harry’s breath hisses sharply through his teeth at the drag of cloth against his still-damp cock, and he can feel Danny hard against him.

He hooks his fingers under the elastic of Danny’s pyjama bottoms, nails sinking into the soft skin underneath. “Get them – off,” he commands against Danny’s mouth, and tugs impatiently.

Danny makes a half-irritated noise in the back of his throat, but he pulls away briefly to wriggle and kick his way out of his pants, then returns, nudging Harry’s legs apart and settling between his thighs. Harry yanks him back down into another kiss, one hand clasped behind Danny’s neck – tips of his fingers pressed deep into the bumps of his spine – the other raking his side. Danny shudders and presses closer, their bodies sliding together, and Harry can’t help but moan into Danny’s mouth, reveling in the glorious sensations of skin on sweaty skin, of Danny’s hard cock against his, one large hand wound in his hair. Harry pulls his knees up, cradling Danny’s hips between them.

There’s a soft _snick_ from somewhere to Harry’s right, and a moment later the back of Danny’s left hand skims the inside of Harry’s thigh then drops lower. Slick fingers trail along the cleft of Harry’s arse in brief warning before a single digit presses inside. Harry gasps against Danny’s lips, tries to make his body to relax and accept the intrusion.

“ _God_ ,” Danny pants into Harry’s mouth, and, “Okay?” he asks.

Harry nods his head jerkily, foreheads touching, nails pressed into Danny’s ribs and the back of his neck. “Okay, yeah, fuck,” he gasps, and, after several moments, “More.”

Danny adds another finger, shoving deep, in and out, twisting, probing for –

Harry jerks and cries out when Danny’s fingers find his prostate, eyes rolling closed, gasping for air.

Danny’s other hand tightens in Harry’s short hair, his breathing heavy and hot as it washes over Harry’s cheeks. “You’re so – fucking beautiful – _god_ ,” Danny’s words tumble out on the exhale, fingers still thrusting, scissoring, making Harry writhe. “Angel of fucking, fucking sin.”

“ _Danny_ ,” Harry’s having trouble forming words, breath coming hard and fast, pulse thundering in his ears, just needs to – “ _Christ_ , would you just – you can –”

Danny adds a third finger, twists, prods that tiny bundle of nerves every time he moves. Harry’s head falls back, his mouth open, trying to draw in oxygen, and Danny nips at his jaw, follows the curve of his ear with his tongue, teeth closing on the lobe and tugging, sending a jolt down Harry’s spine. He presses open-mouthed kisses to the exposed line of Harry’s throat, wet and sloppy and hard, tongue against Harry’s pulse.

“Jesus fucking – Mother of – _fuck_ –” Harry can do nothing but writhe helplessly, trying to push himself down on Danny’s fingers, arching his neck into Danny’s mouth “– would you just fucking – _fuck_ , Danny – stop fucking around and just – _fuck me_ , for fucking _fuck’s_ sake –”

Danny’s tongue swipes the underside of Harry’s chin and across his lower lip. “Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a fucking dirty mouth for such a posh bastard?” he inquires, and he sounds too fucking calm, too fucking in control, and Harry will fucking _kill him_ if he doesn’t –

“Going to fucking _kill you_ – you fucking arsehole – if you don’t fucking – fuck me – right now,” Harry pants.

“Say ‘please,’” Danny whispers, breath hot and wet against the side of Harry’s face, fingers still twisting, brushing repeatedly over Harry’s prostate.

Harry groans, arching, shivering – just needs – but – “ _Please_ ,” the single word rips itself straight from his chest and he very nearly whimpers when Danny’s fingers withdraw, feeling suddenly very empty and aching for –

He forces his eyes open at the sound of the condom wrapper ripping open, watches Danny roll the latex down and wrap a hand around his own cock, smearing lube, sees Danny’s mouth drop open just a bit at the sensation, his eyelids fluttering. It’s one of the most fucking beautiful things Harry has ever seen and he will never, ever get tired of it. Body tensed, quivering, waiting, Harry reaches out to trace Danny’s parted lips, brows, cheekbones, jaw, can’t stop touching, all ten fingertips gliding over soft, damp skin.

Danny makes a noise and catches both of Harry’s wrists in one hand, pinning them against the mattress over Harry’s head, swooping down to capture his mouth as he finally, finally slides into Harry’s body. A whine rises up from Harry’s throat at the stretching burn and Danny swallows it, tongue against Harry’s teeth. Harry can feel him trembling with the effort of holding back, barely moving, giving Harry time to adjust, but Harry’s too far gone to care, hanging on the edge.

“Fucking – fuck, Danny – would you just – _move_ already.” Harry’s hips arch, arms straining as his whole body tries to follow.

Danny growls and shudders into motion, thrusting into Harry’s body, slow and steady until Harry grips his sides with his knees, hips rising to meet him on every thrust, panting,

“Fucking – harder – god, Dan – come on – _fuck me_.”

A groan works its way up through Danny’s chest and throat, Harry can feel it vibrate between their skin, and he thrusts faster, harder. “You’re such a whore for this,” he pants, fingers still tight around Harry’s wrists. “God, you’re so fucking –” He cuts off, biting Harry’s bottom lip, flicking his tongue against his teeth, and shifts so he can slide his free hand between their bodies, palm hot and sweaty and slick as he wraps his fingers around Harry’s cock. The movement changes the angle of Danny’s thrusts and when he drives in again he hits Harry’s prostate and Harry screams.

“Such a fucking whore,” Danny says again, breath ragged and harsh, hand almost rough as he jerks Harry off in time to his thrusts. And Harry can do nothing but moan and curse, writhing underneath him, half-cries ripping themselves from his throat with every snap of Danny’s hips, every twist of his wrist, his entire body straining, arms still pinned above his head.

Danny’s thumb swipes over the head of Harry’s cock, his fingers tighten as he drives in, and Harry falls over the edge, coming hard, vision going bright, muscles clamping down, a scream tearing itself free from somewhere deeper than his toes, that might be wordless, might be _oh fucking god_ , might be _Danny_. And Danny thrusts once more and follows, fingers clenching so hard around Harry’s wrists it must be painful, but Harry can’t tell anymore. Their mouths clash together, messy, off-kilter, teeth cracking, tongues touching in the open air, making desperate contact as they ride through it together and slowly come down.

Harry sinks back, eyes closed, muscles loose, melting into the mattress. Danny releases his wrists and Harry winces as he lowers his arms, then again when Danny carefully pulls out. He hears the snap of rubber as Danny ties off the condom and drops it in the bin under the side-table, followed by the much-appreciated swipe of tissues across his stomach, before he feels the shift of the mattress as Danny flops over next to him. Harry peeks out from beneath his lashes and feels a warmth that has nothing to do with sex spread through his stomach at the sated, half-smile turning up the corners of Danny’s mouth. He shifts closer, trying not to wince again, and tucks himself against the curve of Danny’s body, sighing when Danny shifts as well to accommodate him, pulling up the duvet and draping one of his arms over Harry’s waist, one large hand clasping his hip. His eyes flutter closed again, but, just as he’s drifting off, he thinks he feels the gentle press of lips against the back of his neck.

+

When Harry wakes up his whole body is stiff, and he’s in an awkward position, but he’s comfortably warm. He tries to open his eyes, winces, and slits them against the bright light. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up and remind him why the light is on and that the reason his head is at such an awkward angle is because he’s been using Danny’s shoulder as a pillow. Danny’s other arm is wrapped around Harry’s chest, hand pressed flat against his ribcage, one of Harry’s own hands looking very small trying to cover it, fingers laced together.

Harry wonders if he should be bothered that they are, in the strictest sense of the word, cuddling. Because he’s not. At all. He feels – happy. Safe. He can tell from Danny’s soft, rhythmic breathing that he’s still asleep, and he considers going back to sleep himself, but somehow, he finds himself preferring to stay awake.

He yawns and flinches at the painful pull of the skin of his neck. He glances down at what he can see of his torso. The duvet is covering his legs and up past his hips, but he can still see the liberal scattering of bruises across his chest and stomach and his wrists are ringed with dark finger-and-handprints. He doesn’t want to think about the places too high to see, or those covered by the duvet – the pain around the base of his neck is indication enough that it’s not going to be pretty. He hopes he doesn’t have any marks higher than his shirt collars.

Carefully, so as not to disturb Danny, he turns over within the circle of Danny’s arms, wincing as even that slow movement makes his entire body ache and scream in protest. Settling again, he notices that Danny has his own collection of mementos, mostly from Harry’s nails. He traces one of the long scratches with the pad of his thumb, and feels a frisson of delight at the way Danny’s skin shivers beneath his touch. He follows another score mark, this one deep enough that it looks like it might have bled a little, then gets distracted by a splash of particularly dark freckles scattered around Danny’s collarbone. He’s tempted to taste them, but settles for connecting them with his fingertip, then playing connect the dots with the lighter freckles that spread across Danny’s arms and chest and disappear beneath the covers.

Danny stirs, and Harry looks up just as his eyes blink open. “Hey,” he says when he sees Harry watching him, his voice husky with sleep, deeper than usual, and his mouth curves slowly into that sunshine smile of his that always makes Harry’s insides melt.

“Hey,” he echoes.

Danny shifts, stretching his arms up above his head, and sucks in a hissing breath through his teeth. “Ow.” He shifts again so he can exam his torso, lightly touching the scratch marks that stretch down his sides before kicking at the duvet so he can see the thin, crescent moon-shaped cuts and bruises on his hips. “I look like I lost a fight with a cat,” he remarks, half rueful, half amused, then takes a good look at Harry, and smirks. “Not as nice a job as you, though,” he says, and Harry wants to swallow the pride in his voice.

Compulsively, he glances down at his newly-bared hips, and winces both at the pull in his neck – which he is still dreading seeing – and at the sight of the finger-and-mouth shaped bruises that almost completely cover his hips.

“I’m going to be stuck in collared, long-sleeved shirts for the next week,” Harry growls, “And it fucking hurts to move.”

Danny laughs – and Harry feels better, though he knows he shouldn’t – and says, “Just wait until you get up.” And this time, Harry does kiss him, hard and dirty on the mouth, because that self-satisfied tone of pure masculine pride ought to piss him off, but all he can think about is the taste of it on his tongue.

He pulls back after a moment and wrinkles his nose. “I think we need to brush our teeth,” he announces, but he’s not really all that bothered, just glad it’s both of them, otherwise it would be far worse. He nips at Danny’s throat, just because it’s not fair that Harry can’t even turn his head without being reminded rather painfully of last night – not that he minds much – when Danny’s throat is nearly pristine.

Danny laughs again. “I’m using your toothbrush,” he says, and Harry just hides his smile against Danny’s chest.

They’re silent for several minutes, and somehow one of Danny’s hands works its way to the back of Harry’s neck, playing with his hair, the other hand spread large and warm against his spine.

Harry looks up after a while, watching the peaceful, half-smile that’s playing across Danny’s lips.

Danny cocks his head to one side on the pillow, “What’re you thinking?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Harry says, then, “This is nice. Waking up like this. Together.” He can feel the heat in his cheeks indicating that he’s flushing, and he wants to look away, but for some reason he can’t.

“Yeah,” Danny agrees, then frowns slightly at the look on Harry’s face. “Is that bad?”

Harry shrugs one shoulder, and manages to suppress the wince. “If Tom or Dougie finds out, we’re dead,” he says, half to himself, turning his forehead against Danny’s shoulder.

Danny twitches his shoulder until Harry looks up at him again. “Dougie won’t care,” Danny tells him when he is sure he has his attention. “He’ll probably take the piss forever, but he won’t really –”

“He’ll tell Tom,” Harry cuts him off. “And Tom will kill us.”

Danny regards him for a long moment, expression uncomfortably serious. “I know we talked about this last night,” he says slowly, “and you said – well.” He looks away for a moment, then meets Harry’s eyes again. “Do you want to stop?”

“No,” Harry says, without pausing to think about it. He’s done enough thinking about it, and he’d made his decision. “I didn’t just say that stuff last night because I wanted to get laid,” he tells Danny, starting to feel vaguely irritated. “I said it because I meant it.”

“Good,” Danny replies, and twists awkwardly so he can press a surprisingly chaste kiss to Harry’s lips. When he pulls away, his smile is back, and Harry feels stupidly like he’s won a prize.

“Tom won’t care as long as the band’s not in danger from it,” Danny remarks. “I mean, if he thinks we’re serious he probably won’t –” Danny breaks off and shifts, eyes suddenly darting away from Harry’s face and back. “We are – aren’t we? Serious?”

The incredibly vulnerable expression on Danny’s face in that moment makes something in Harry’s chest clench, even as he feels a swooping sense of relief. “Yeah,” he says, and can feel his face break into a smile, which spreads in response to the reappearance of Danny’s contagious grin, “Yeah, we are.” He reaches out, ignoring the sting of pulled bruises, and drags his knuckles lightly down Danny’s jaw. “I can’t give you up. I won’t.”

Danny leans slightly into the touch. “Then Tom’s got nothing to worry about, has he?”

Harry shakes his head and leans up to touch their lips together gently, “No,” he says, mouth moving against Danny’s. “He hasn’t.” And this time, he kisses him properly, morning breath be damned.

**END**


End file.
